36 isn’t what I expected it would be.
When I was 10, I knew I’d have a book published before I was 20. In fact, I expected to be a famous author in the winter and a marine biologist in the summer. I would be so famous that I’d use my maiden name for my writing so I wouldn’t get mobbed when I traveled.
At 36, I’m shopping around a proposal for my first book. The marine biology part didn’t come true either. My stomach lurched its way through my last whale watch and the amount of chemistry required in college probably would have stopped me cold. Despite that, I do make a living from my writing – and use my maiden name in it – which is pretty amazing in and of itself.
When I was 14, I expected to understand how to be a woman by the time I graduated college. I looked longingly at makeovers at beauty store makeup counters, believing that they could transform me like they did in every teenybopper movie. There was a pretty girl under all of that “stuff,” right? Certainly, I’d understand fashion and makeup by then.
At 36, I finally got that makeover, courtesy of the Sephora beauty counter. While I had realized long-ago that my dislike of beauty products was rooted in my own insecurities, I had never taken the time or effort to teach myself more than the bare minimum about makeup. Even though I still don’t expect to wear much on any given day, I wanted those skills in my toolbox of deciding how to present myself to the world. I had enough of second-guessing myself, not trusting my own judgment of the woman in the mirror. I walked in and presented myself as an eager student, listening to the options with an open mind. I walked out with opinions on what worked and what didn’t as well as enough confidence to trust those opinions.
When I was 15, I gazed at the other girls’ lockers, decorated with ribbons and tissue paper for their birthdays. Not only did their friends remember their birthdays, but they put in effort to decorate them. I wondered if I would ever have friends who would do such a thing for me.
At 36, I hosted eight of my close friends (along with a gaggle of kids) for a birthday party this past weekend. We talked about our lives, local government, travel, and so much more. The kids sprinted around the house, chasing each other and investigating all of my kids’ toys. After a round of Happy Birthday to You, I blew out nine candles (3 and 6) on a cookie cake baked by my husband and son. That night, I sipped wine with my husband from a bottle a friend had gifted to me, grateful to be surrounded by people I loved and who loved me back.
When I was 20, I expected to be a science journalist, winning awards left and right, by the time I was in my mid-30s. Or maybe the head of a communications office at a non-profit organization.
At 36, I’ve worked for the federal government for more than a decade and I’m not the head of my office. Nor do I want to be. While those non-profit jobs call to me, I also value regular hours and enough pay for my husband to stay at home with the kids.
When I was 24, I looked on with envy at my friend living in New York City and staying at home with a young child. Attending graduate school in another country, I missed home. The thought of domestic bliss was comforting. (I did realize that she probably thought the same thing about me.) I had only the vaguest of notions what actually raising kids was like.
At 36, I have a two year old and five year old. They are the loves of my life and the shredders of any sense of order. They have woken me up at 3 AM because they need cuddles and then fought me changing them out of wet pajamas. They regularly turn my heart inside-out. Graduate school me traveled by herself and wrote a masters thesis, but wouldn’t have a clue about what to do with my kids.
At every age, I’ve wanted the same sorts of things: to feel comfortable with who I am, to love and be loved, and to make a difference. My vision of that has changed over time, but the heart of it has always stayed the same. I don’t have everything I thought I would now; instead, I have so much more.
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